


i'm the powder, you're the fuse (just add some friction)

by bloodinfection



Series: seconds late, always late [1]
Category: The Office (US)
Genre: Coming Untouched, Desk Sex, General Cockslut Ryan Howard, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M, Marking, Masochism, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Rough Sex, Smut, Spit As Lube, aren't we all, ryan's a greedy ass bottom, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-11 19:55:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19116625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodinfection/pseuds/bloodinfection
Summary: There's something about this time of day—or maybe it's the two hours of sleep he'd gotten this entire week, he wouldn't know—that makes Jim's thoughts all jumbled, makes him bolder than he'd like. Ryan looks at him, and his bottom lip shines with spit.Dangerous.





	i'm the powder, you're the fuse (just add some friction)

**Author's Note:**

> title is from [my strange addiction](https://youtu.be/k1ATPhkVWi0) by billie eilish 
> 
> yall know how people just like,, watch the office and then they don't do this
> 
> wish that were me
> 
> (set after s5e05 _crime aid_ )

Jim wouldn't say he's dealing particularly well with Pam being away.

Probably the understatement of the century, actually.

He's not mad. He's not unsupportive, really, genuinely, he just wants what's best for her. He's not anything. Nothing, nothing without her and nothing to her, apparently.

It's all starting to seem a little too familiar, a little too close to the time they'd spent away with her in Pennsylvania and him in Connecticut, trying to forget, trying to move on.

He hates it.

He hates how hard he tries to keep the relationship afloat, how he had to _propose_ to make sure Pam doesn't forget him in her big fancy city, with her new fancy friends.

Hates himself the most, really, when he catches a glimpse into his own eyes in the rear view mirror, and tries to convince himself it's the sharp u-turn that's making him queasy, not his intrusive, bad, very-not-good thoughts.

Hates himself more than the most when, back home, he can't sleep, and the only thing he can think of is going into the office early and oh, how the mighty have fallen.

The cleaning crew wave at him sleepily, confused by his presence in the mild manner that's reserved exclusively for absent-minded human interaction before the sun has properly risen. A glance towards the elevator makes panic rise high in Jim's throat. The stairs are fine.

He opens the door with a spare key that he probably shouldn't be in possession of, legally speaking.

It's the first time he's ever flipped the switch in the office, he realizes, and popping this particular cherry was never something he dreamed of, another milestone in a life he never wanted. The white light burns his eyes, sears into his brain. He can't help but think the silence is unnerving, not only without people, but even the quiet buzz of their busted copier is gone. He drags a hand down his tired face.

"Well, this is new."

The unexpectedness of the words makes him jump, but there are no cameras around, so nobody can prove anything.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you." Ryan's leaning on the doorframe to the kitchen, his shirt wrinkled, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. "Wait, no, I did. What're you doing here?"

Jim looks around, confused. Remembers switching the light on a minute ago. "What are _you_ doing here? With the lights off? Door locked?"

Ryan laughs and it's loud, too loud in the empty space. "Got myself a deal with Michael. Once a month I come in at the ass crack of dawn, make him a special bagel, and he doesn't harass me for, like, three days."

Everything seems a bit surreal. Jim figures it's the hour. There's no birds singing. No light. Sun rises late in Pennsylvania, in November.

"A what now?"

Ryan winces. "Trust me, you don't wanna know. It involves nuking the thing in the microwave six times. Amongst other things."

"Gross." He swings his bag across the back of his chair.

"Yeah. But I'm desperate."

Desperate. Yeah, Jim's been that. Is that.

They don't talk after that. Ryan doesn't push to know why, exactly, Jim's coming in at quarter to six, just to stare out the window at the unrelenting darkness of the parking lot. The silence between them is strangely comfortable.

The microwave beeps. Out of the corner of his eye Jim sees Ryan slam dunk balled up paper towels into the bin.

Jim's eyes follow Ryan as he powerwalks to the reception to check his phone, and back to the kitchen, drumming his fingers on every surface on his way. The weeks Jim's spent sneaking looks in his direction, so many years ago, suddenly flood his memory. When bored blue eyes first replaced curly hair and warm smiles, when the looks were all wrong and everything felt off.

It's still off, been off these past couple months, when fancy-Ryan-from-fancy-corporate died a slow, painful death and Ryan-the-temp replaced him once again, and at that replaced Pam at her spot, too. Jim's dealt with that better than with other things going on, at least. He doesn't feel the need to look over at the reception every second anymore. He wonders if that speaks for his feelings at all and figures it's probably better to not dwell on.

Ryan hums to himself in the kitchen, a catchy melody Jim can't quite place. The kid's got too much energy, Jim decides, a stark contrast to himself. He lays his head down on the desk, a stack of sales reports serving as a pillow, and maybe he could sleep here, like this, the presence of another person weirdly comforting in this cold office space. Beats staring at the ceiling of his stuffy bedroom for five to seven hours.

"Talk to me."

The last place he expects Ryan to be is in Dwight's chair, right in front of him, so close, _Jesus._

"Why would I talk to you?"

Because really, they're on luke-warm terms at best, and Jim doesn't hold grudges, but he's not going to sit here and pretend fancy-Ryan-from-fancy-corporate wasn't trying to get him fired like an absolute dick. It puts a bit of a damper on his relations with Ryan-the-temp that they both feel.

Ryan cocks his head to the side. "I'm here. I'm bo-ored." Jim sees his leg bouncing up and down. "You missing your girl?"

It's not the kind of conversation he'd thought he would have with Ryan, ever.

"Yeah, I miss her." Outside, the sky is starting to turn grey. "Not sure she's missing me, though."

Ryan folds his hands together and rests his chin on them, looking _fascinated_. "Ouch."

"Yup." Jim wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants— "She's having fun. I guess. Making friends. Living the life. I'm just not there to do any of that with her."

Ryan's responses are rapid fire, like he has them ready before Jim's done talking. "So you're here being a sore loser, is what you're saying."

Jim hums. "Guess I am."

He looks at Ryan, really looks at him, his pink lips and his big eyes, his pupils blown so wide Jim can barely see the blue of his irises. Has he always been this—

"You okay, Ryan?"

"'M great. You?"

Jim lets himself stare into space. He wonders if anybody else comes in before nine. He doubts it. "Yeah, I'm not."

There's something about this time of day—or maybe it's the two hours of sleep he'd gotten this entire week, he wouldn't know—that makes Jim's thoughts all jumbled, makes him bolder than he'd like. Ryan looks at him, and his bottom lip shines with spit.

Dangerous.

The damn microwave beeps again, and Ryan's out of the chair and in the kitchen before Jim can blink. He hears water running, then dripping on the floor and Ryan's distressed _ah, fuck_. He comes out into the office space a minute later, the front of his lavender shirt soaking wet. Jim can see the dip of his navel through the fabric.

"Hey, man, you got a change of clothes, maybe?"

Jim shakes his head. Ryan sighs.

"Cool. Guess I'll, uh, hang it out to dry. If you don't mind?"

He tries not to stare too hard where the shirt clings to Ryan's skin. "It's cool, go ahead," he says, but Ryan's already working the buttons open with superhuman speed.

"You're, uh—you don't wear an undershirt, under your—well, shirt?"

Which is a dumb question with a pretty obvious answer, considering the way Ryan is very clearly devoid of said undershirt. "No, yeah, it got—misplaced last night. I didn't get a chance to go home."

Jim gasps with all the drama factor of a sleep deprived office worker. "On a school night? Shame on you." Ryan smirks as he drapes his shirt over the back of a chair. "Where, in the lively Scranton, Pennsylvania, can you stay out so late you can't get home on time?"

Ryan crosses his arms and Jim doesn't know why he notices that his forearms are slightly more tan than his belly is, but he does. "New York. Long story."

They carry on being silent, and shortly after Ryan disappears into the bathroom. Jim more or less returns to staring at the office furniture reflected in the window, except now he's also thinking about how, exactly, someone might lose a shirt in the middle of the night in New York City. None of the ways he can think of he'd be brave enough to share out loud, but suddenly he can't help the images that pop into his head, of crowded clubs and dirty bathroom stalls. Of Pam amongst the body of sweaty strangers and fruity drinks. Of Ryan with his head thrown back against a wall, his shirt abandoned, hands tangled in fistfuls of long hair—

When he comes back, Ryan's a bit lighter on his feet, a bit more jolly than he was a second ago. He doesn't have his belt on anymore, Jim notes, so his pants cling low on his hips, and Jim can see the waistband of his underwear. He can also see, and will never un-see, never forget, never recover from witnessing finger-shaped bruises blooming just above Ryan's right hip bone. _  
Christ._

Jim doesn't stare, and his mouth doesn't go dry, and his dick definitely doesn't get fucking hard.

Except that, you know. It does.

It's like the snap of an elastic, the way the air around them changes in a split second.

He feels Ryan's gaze burn into him as he closes the space between them, eyes sharp, like he suddenly has a purpose to his walk. Maybe he does.

Jim closes his eyes, weighs his options.

Doesn't say _no_ when Ryan straddles him with surprising ease—does he dare call it surprising when, apparently, Ryan is just a walking surprise? His chair whines, long and loud, and if they came tumbling to the ground it wouldn't matter at all, Jim can't tell the difference between up and down anyway, not when Ryan settles over his cock with a sharp inhale. Ryan takes Jim's hands and guides them to his waist. Jim manages to tear his eyes away from Ryan's face just for long enough to drag his gaze down, over lean muscle and smooth skin. He traces the round marks by Ryan's hip and wonders if he could leave bruises like that, too.

Jim is dazed, confused. He swipes his thumb over Ryan's lip. If you were to ask him how he ended up with his mouth on Ryan's neck, numb fingers struggling to unbutton his pants, he wouldn't know. It's like a fever dream when his lips make their way higher, but Ryan guides his head back down.

"You don't have to kiss me, 's fine," Ryan mumbles towards the ceiling, his back arched, fingers tightly gripping the edge of the desk. Jim can feel the words vibrate against his lips as he sucks a bright red hickey into the skin of Ryan's throat. Pam never lets him leave marks. She thinks it'd make people imagine them having sex.

"Why wouldn't I want to kiss you?"

Ryan moans, loud and filthy, when Jim pulls his hair, just this side of too hard ( _Pam doesn't like that_ ), drags his head down, crushes their mouths together. His hazy brain barely registers nimble fingers at his collar before his shirt falls half-open. Ryan's lips are soft and inviting and perfect, but Jim doesn't want soft, he wants sharp and hard and rough. Wants to rip Ryan to pieces and swallow every last bit. It's new, it's exciting. It makes his blood pump faster than it ever has at six-thirty in the morning. Strands of short hair slip between his fingers. He rakes his teeth over Ryan's bottom lip before returning to sucking bruises along his jaw. God help him, but he likes the way the stubble there feels against his tongue.

Desperate, Ryan'd said.

Jim grabs the backs of Ryan's thighs and pulls him close, closer, until he can feel his cock pressed between their stomachs, until Ryan whines high in his throat and exposes his neck for Jim to bite into again.

Desperate is right.

"You gonna fuck me?" Ryan's breathless. Jim would be, too, if he tried to speak right now. He doesn't. Instead, he leans back, tries to catch his breath. It's hard. He's hard. The thought of seeing the marks on Ryan's skin turn purple above his shirt collars over the next week makes him near-delirious. He can't think straight, can't think at all with Ryan's eyes dark and hungry, his lips bitten red, his hands burning holes through Jim's skin as they wander under his shirt. "C'mon, big guy, need an answer."

Jim shouldn't. Though, he supposes, if he only did things he should, he wouldn't have Ryan half-naked, sat in his lap in the first place. "You want—dry?"

Ryan shudders, nods, slides a hand under the waistband of his unbuttoned slacks. Squeezes his cock through his boxers. Jesus. "Fuck, yeah. Make it hurt."

Jim hopes he can pretend the words don't make his dick jump (you know, like a liar) but when Ryan grinds down against him, the high squeak of his chair does little to hide his groan.

"You're fucked in the head, Howard."

Slender fingers close around Jim's wrist to guide him to replace Ryan's own hand on his cock. Ryan's eyes flutter closed for a second, like he's gonna come right then. "I'd rather be fucked in other places."

"Oh, God. Get up, it's over."

Ryan winks before taking Jim's face in his palms and kissing him again, feverishly slow, and Jim sees stars littering the backs of his eyelids. He feels like he's suffocating in the heat of their bodies.

A thought flashes in his head, just a fraction of a second, of what could've been if it'd been Ryan at the reception desk that first day.

Jim's free hand grabs onto skin like he's a drowning man. He runs his fingers up Ryan's spine before tangling them in his hair again, tugging his head back just to hear curses spill from his lips. Ryan looks lost, his eyes unfocused, hips moving relentlessly to find some friction against Jim's hand and he's so hard, so willing, _fuck_.

"Get naked, Ry."

There's a lonely bird chirping outside, but the sun is hesitant to rise still. Everything's a blur, like maybe Jim really did fall asleep at his desk and this is all a dream. Ryan stands, unsteady, swaying slightly. He lets his pants fall to the floor. There's a tremble in his hands when he slides his boxers off and, oh, _God_ , fuck. The harsh lighting does him _all_ of the favors apparently, every one of them.

Jim thinks he might die. He thinks he is dying, really, truly, when Ryan settles in his lap again, his heavy-lidded eyes never leaving Jim's. Ryan drags three of his own fingers over his tongue. It's the little sounds he makes as he sucks on them, though, that make Jim convinced he has, in fact, died already.

"How are you real?" he asks when Ryan bites his lip and starts working the fingers into himself, too fast, too close to the bulge in Jim's pants and so, so fucking filthy.

He's scared to look down, scared he'll come before he even gets his dick out, because apparently Jim is sixteen and horny all over again, but he just can't help it. It's all too much. Ryan makes these tiny noises under his breath, chest heaving, his cock curled up against his belly. Jim surges forward to pry Ryan's teeth off of his lip and replaces them with his own.

Ryan moans into the kiss, and Jim thinks he's gonna go mad.

"Can't wait to have you in me, fu- _uck_."

The little self-control Jim had crumbles before his very eyes. He starts to unbuckle his belt, well as he's able to in the tight space between them.

"You gonna get me nice and slick, Ry?"

He can feel Ryan shudder against him. Can see him rocking against his own fingers faster. "Yeah, yes, Christ, yeah."

Jim suddenly thinks about how the doors are unlocked—and also, like, made of glass—but Ryan scrambles to get on his knees, and Jim doesn't think about anything other than getting those perfect lips around his cock.

Ryan's quick; he's sloppy. He keeps his eyes half-open and sighs, satisfied, like he wants nothing more in life other than sucking dick. The glimpses Jim catches of his pink tongue drive him crazy, and he doesn't know how he's ever lived without the heat of Ryan's mouth, without his little moans that fill the air around them, how he'll carry on living without them when the morning light finally sobers him up.

It takes everything in him not to spill down Ryan's throat, all over his pretty face, especially when he asks with feigned innocence, "Pull my hair again?"

Jim does, only to pull him up and crowd him against the desk. It's strange, how small Ryan seems in his arms, and yet Jim doesn't have to bend all that low to kiss him, not like he has to with—

Ryan twists around and braces himself on the desk, arches his back. Jim is mesmerised by the sharp lines of his body, the knobs of his spine, his shoulder blades coming together when he looks at Jim over his shoulder. His lashes cast long shadows on his cheeks.

Jim wonders what kind of cruel joke the temp agency played when they'd sent an angel to work for Dunder Mifflin.

His fingers fit so well around the curve of Ryan's hips when he pulls them back.

"Do it, fucking—please, can't wait anymore, 'm _ready._ "

And maybe, maybe Jim casts a glance, just one tiny peek at the reception desk as he presses forward, pushes in, but it doesn't matter, does it?

It doesn't matter because Pam isn't going to be there no matter how many times he looks, and Ryan's right here, right now, so tight and so warm, and when he whines he whines so _prettily_.

Jim can't breathe for a second, overwhelmed as he watches Ryan try to keep himself up even when the muscles in his arms tremble, threatening to give out.

"Fuck, Jesus, you want to—" And Jim could stop, Jim would stop. He looks down at where their bodies meet, sees how the teeth of his zipper dig into Ryan's skin where he's pressed flush against Jim's hips. Maybe he couldn't.

"No, no, just—" Ryan's voice gets so soft and whispy, Jim could get high on the sound of it. "God, just fuck me, hurt me, _use_ me."

An angel is temping for the goddamn Dunder Mifflin Paper Company and Jim has him spread out on a desk, biting his lip, hickeys blossoming along the column of his throat.

He's never felt closer to hell. It's never felt quite this much like heaven.

Jim moves and Ryan moves and soon they find ( _harder, harder, please_ ) a rhythm ( _faster, you're so good_ ). The desk shakes with them. A stray pencil rolls off its ledge to the floor.

Everything around them is so quiet. Ryan groans and the sound travels all around the space, bouncing off of walls, an endless plea for _more, right there, don't stop_. Jim pulls at his hips, brings Ryan down on his cock like he's never gonna do anything else in life. He sees Ryan's teeth sink into his forearm, trying to keep the noise down.

Jim reaches out blindly to wrap an arm around Ryan's chest and pull him close, God, they're so close. The skin under Jim's fingertips is scalding hot despite the chill of the air around them.

"Ah, ah, you're so good, so much better, please—"

The fronts of Ryan's thighs are banging against the edge of the desk, delicious noises spilling from his parted lips. Jim thinks about bruises again and goes half-mad as he speeds up, rocks them faster.

"Better? Who else're you letting fuck you like this, Ry?" Jim's teeth graze the shell of Ryan's ear.

"Anyone, _fuck_ , anyone who wants me," Ryan says but it's barely audible, his voice small and breathless.

Jim matches his thrust to the staccato of his words as his fingers dig into Ryan's skin, marking, owning. He keeps his voice steady when he whispers, "Why would someone want you when you're such a dirty whore, Ryan?"

His hand snakes up Ryan's body to wrap around his throat. He can feel Ryan swallow, feel the sob that wrecks through his body. Jim takes note of how Ryan's arms hang uselessly at his sides, how he doesn't try to touch himself, even as his cock smears precome on the desk before them when Jim thrusts into him. _Fucking hell._

A single light glitches in the corner, right above the accounting nook. Maybe the gods are angry with the way his cock fits so perfectly into the heat of Ryan's body. Maybe it's Angela.

Ryan trembles like an earthquake, his knees giving out under him. Jim's arm around his torso, the hand around his neck seem to be the only things keeping him upright. Jim feels a surge of power course through him at all the control he has.

The couch near the entrance grows more tempting by the second. Laying Ryan down on his back, seeing his face, looking into his eyes as Jim makes him come. It's too close though, too close to all the memories Jim tries to ignore, the reception looming over it like a cloud ready to hail.

Ryan grasps at Jim's shirt desperately when he pulls out, protests already forming when Jim grabs his shoulder and turns him so they're face to face. Ryan's so pliable under him when Jim's tongue coaxes his mouth open, so far gone as he urges him up on the desk. It's almost familiar. Almost like—

"C'mon," Ryan mumbles against his lips, but Jim pushes in just right and his words drift off.

Their foreheads rest against each other. Ryan's thighs shake where they're squeezing Jim's waist. "Don't be greedy."

"Sorry, sorry, I'm—I never let them kiss me and you're so—"

Jim cuts him off with another kiss because he can't handle listening to exactly what he is, not if he's leaving here alive or with any integrity whatsoever. The words ignite a flame deep in his soul, a shameful part that just needs to _have_ and _own_. A part that wants Ryan never to kiss anyone else, never to let anybody have him.

The bobbleheads on Dwight's desk nod along when Jim's thrusts send the desks knocking against each other.

"God, fuck, right there, y'feel so good, fuck, _fuck_."

One of Ryan's hand flies up to clasp around his mouth, the other tangles in his own hair to tug on it. His moans are short, cut-off, like he's lost control of his body entirely. God, but he's a sight. Jim feels this overpowering need burn red-hot underneath his skin and he's so close, so close. He _wants_ and he _needs_ and he has no right to the words that leave his mouth before his crazed mind catches on.

"Say you're mine, Ry."

Ryan sobs and he nods and, "Yeah, yes, all yours, 'm all yours, please, I'm gonna—"

He's _gonna_ and he does, claws at Jim's bicep, and fuck, _fuck_ , because Ryan doesn't even touch himself before he spills between their stomachs, he just shakes through it, his pretty, pretty face scrunched up, lost in pleasure.

White flashes behind Jim's eyelids, tears burn tracks into his skin as he pulls Ryan closer to his chest, enough to bury his face in the crook of his shoulder, enough to bite down on the skin there as he comes, and he comes, and he comes.

Ryan smooths a hand over his hair.

Later when they kiss, it's slow and tender and makes Jim's chest ache. Ryan begins to shiver underneath him but Jim can't stop, can't let him go just yet, not when this moment is all they get. Jim can barely breathe through the guilt that's suffocating him.

 

* * *

 

Pam's back in his life before the hickeys on Ryan's skin fade.


End file.
